For the Man Who Has Everything
by Oneiriad
Summary: Four months after Sherlock's death, John saves the life of a stranger...


**For the Man Who Has Everything**  
_oneiriad_

**Disclaimer**: not mine, just playing  
**A/N**: written as part of the (somewhat late) 2012 xover_exchange. Thank you to exeterlinden, goldenusage and jaune_chat for betaing. All mistakes are, of course, my own.

* * *

There is a man sitting at a desk…

Actually, dear reader, if I may amend that?

There is a creature of the abyss tightly wrapped in stolen human flesh sitting at a desk, staring at a computer. It - he? - is scowling.

* * *

But no - on second thought, dear reader, I think we're getting ahead of ourselves here. So, and I do hope you will be patient with me, but I think we'll start somewhere else. With someone else, to be exact.

It's been four months now. Four months since he saw his friend spread his arms wide as wings and crash to the ground, crumple into something small that could be carried away on a stretcher. Four months since the headlines and the scandals and everything.

It's been four months.

John likes to think he's coping.

He's taken to walking - long, solitary walks through the byways and backways of London. On days where he doesn't have work - Sarah still throws the occasional bit of locum work his way - he goes walking, spending as little time as humanly possible in his tiny, one-room flat, where the computer screen glows accusingly at him from a blog he hasn't updated since…

He's taken to walking.

Sometimes he visits Mrs. Hudson and they'll sit in her kitchen and have tea, scones with jam and clotted cream laid out invitingly on the table between them. They talk about nothing and everything - John's work, Mrs. Hudson's broken fridge that really needs replacing, her sister's children, the new tenant who left before the first month had even gone and how it was just as well, considering those funny noises that had come from upstairs while he was staying.

Nothing important.

Except sometimes.

And sometimes he walks to the cemetery, and sometimes he'll bring a flower to lay at the grave. He's stopped yelling at it. He's kind of proud at that. His therapist tells him it's a good sign. Maybe she's right.

So he walks, and days slide into evenings and sometimes he'll head homewards then and sometimes he won't. Sometimes he'll drown the evening in some silly American action movie, all flash and noise - whatever's running in the cinema - sometimes he'll drown it the more traditional way at whatever pub he happens upon, stumbling home at three o'clock in the morning.

Not tonight, though.

Tonight he's just about to walk inside, hand on the pub door, when something moves out of the corner of his eye - maybe it's his time in Afghanistan or maybe it's his time with Sherlock, but he doesn't hesitate - he shouts "Get down!" and pushes the man in black he has just walked past aside as the shot rings out, loud and sharp. He doesn't turn to look, ordering whoever has opened the door behind him to "Call the police", his attention focused on the men across the street, one tall, one shorter and armed with some form of pistol, trying to adjust his aim, except John's in his way and then there are sirens and maybe John should pursue them as they run, but it's late and he's unarmed and that's not his life anymore.

"You owe me one," he says, turning to look at the man he just saved - but the tiny alley behind him is empty and all he's addressing is the pub's garbage container. He sighs, takes a few steps to get away from the smell - somebody must have dropped a dozen rotten eggs into that thing - and settles down at the curb to wait for the police to arrive.

* * *

The day is well underway by the time he leaves the police station, stepping into the crisp autumn air. Behind him lies hours of staring at mugshots, of telling and retelling the same few words. At first the officers had been polite, enquiring after details, but then a female officer had stepped out and when she came back, he could tell that she had finally placed his name, that she knew who he was - and that she was one of those on the force who felt that 'innocent dupe' was just another word for 'not enough evidence'.

After that, the hours grew longer and the officers less polite, but eventually they let him go, though not before sharply admonishing him to stay out of police business in the future. If it hadn't been for the pub guests who had heard the gunshot, if it hadn't been for the bullet dug out of a dark-red brick, well - but that's neither here nor there.

He goes home and writes. Tapping away at the keyboard, words filling the screen as he describes the incident, even gives it a title - and then he presses delete and turns off the computer. Goes to bed and sleeps the day away.

And life goes on.

Until about two weeks later, when he's getting some money out of an ATM, and the receipt is wrong. So he calls the bank, telling them their mistake, but they insist they've made none. Then he just sits and stares.

He considers calling Lestrade, but only briefly - Sergeant Lestrade has enough problems of his own these days, he doesn't need John to add to them, and besides, he doesn't have half as much influence as he used to. John considers just calling the police, but somehow he doubts they'd be particularly helpful.

Eventually he phones Mycroft, tells him about the 5 million pounds that have mysteriously appeared on his bank account. For a brief moment he expects Mycroft to be behind it. It's not like the man hasn't offered him money before - offers of bribes to spy, offers to pay half the rent so that John wouldn't have to move. Or perhaps it's Sherlock's money, perhaps his name was written in a will somewhere, except Sherlock never had that kind of money. If he had, he never would have needed a flatmate in the first place.

Mycroft just says that he'll look into it.

The next day, a new receipt has a far lower number. He lowers it further in exchange for groceries and a pint.

* * *

Autumn slides into winter and people start putting up lights. Sarah recommends him to a colleague of hers and he finds himself working in a surgery, going through a steady stream of sniffles and coughs and ankles twisted on treacherous patches of ice. It feels good to have something to do every day, work to get up to in the morning, work to be pleasantly tired from in the evening.

The day before Christmas he goes to the cemetery with Mrs. Hudson. Afterwards they go to a café, have coffee and look at people hurrying past outside and they talk of Sherlock and work and life in general. Then he wanders home through the dancing snowflakes.

Night falls and brings the dreams with it. He hasn't told anybody about the dreams - not Mrs. Hudson, not his therapist, nobody - not that he really has that many people to tell. It's funny, people always acted as if Sherlock was the unsocial one.

In his dreams, in the darkness behind his eyelids, he smiles. In his dreams, Mrs. Hudson brings him tea and does his laundry and calls him Dr. Watson. In his dreams, Sally Donovan kneels at his feet, casting scared glances his way. In his dreams, Moriarty screams as he dies and dies and dies. In his dreams, men with cold eyes snap to attention and call him sir, aim weapons. In his dreams, Mycroft drives his car and holds the door open for him.

And the worst part of his dreams is this: they are not nightmares. Nightmares he knows far, far too well. Nightmares are the noise of battle, the pain in his leg, a huge hound approaching and him with nowhere left to hide. Nightmares are Sherlock falling, arms spread, night after night.

He knows he ought to talk to somebody about them - his therapist would be telling him to talk, to write, to get them out. But how can he tell her, when in his dreams she stand at attention? How can he tell Mrs. Hudson, when every night she acts like a servant? How can he tell anybody, when they are all in his dreams?

He goes to Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson smiles as she lets him in and he barely has time to say hello before she starts fussing over him.

"Now you just sit down, Dr. Watson, and I'll get you a nice cup of tea," and as she leads him to the couch, it's as if something breaks inside him. After two cups of tea he manages to make his escape, fending off offers of having the current tenant evicted "and let's say half the rent - it's not like an old woman like me can't chip in a bit to cover a gentleman's amenities."

For the next two weeks, he makes of point of not seeing anybody he knows. His phone rings and he doesn't answer it. He barely leaves his flat outside of work.

Eventually, he goes out one night, drinks his common sense into submission and tells the stranger next to him about the dreams, about how uncomfortable they make him, about how he worries that he's going insane, about how lonely he feels. Eventually he runs out of things to say, turns to look at the man he's been talking to - squints.

"Don't I know you from someplace?"

"Don't think so, mate."

It's not until the man in black - what did he say his name was? Crawford? Crowley? - has left, that John manages to dredge up from the depths of his alcohol-sodden brain exactly where he's seen the guy before. By then, of course, the man's long gone.

* * *

The first day of a new year and he wakes refreshed from a dreamless sleep to find a thick envelope in the mail, courtesy of Mycroft. The file inside spends an awful lot of words describing how the 5 million had come from a dozen different accounts in the Caymans, and that the best guess as to how they'd wound up in John's bank account involved somebody mistyping a digit somewhere. Apparently, his account number is just one digit away from three major politicians, two ambassadors and a fairly highly placed individual in MI6, or so the files seem to say in the parts he can read, between fat lines of black.

Attached to the file is a short letter, very official looking, quoting the rules regarding finder's fees, and a cheque for more money than what is currently in his bank account. At first he considers just tearing it up, but then he sighs and puts it in his wallet. The next day, he goes to the bank to deposit it.

The woman behind the desk is pretty and petite, smiling at him as she handles his cheque with quiet professionalism and tells him her name is Janice. He winds up meeting her for drinks and really, it's just because he really needs to take advantage of his current dreamlessness that he doesn't accept her invitation to come home with her.

The next day, he's shopping when a woman - Christy, single mother of two adorable kids - accidentally runs into him with her cart. She apologizes, then apologizes some more and asks him to dinner to make it up for him. He's not quite sure why he turns her down.

Two days later, he meets Cora - he's been visiting Sherlock's grave, she's been visiting her late husband's. The day after that, it's Nina, the barely-out-of-her-teens barista. Later, that same day, it's Melanie the teacher who is really supposed to be keeping an eye on a bunch of twelve-year-olds. And somewhere along the way, John begins to feel a bit like the star in a deodorant add.

Two days later, he's at the surgery when he meets Kevin of the sprained ankle and the phone number, and this is getting ridiculous. The next day, he calls in sick and he spends the next three days at home, alone, hoping that whatever it is will pass.

On the fourth day he goes back to work, and somehow, an entire day manages to go by without anybody - male or female - hitting on him.

That night, he goes to Angelo's for dinner. The restaurant is busy, but Angelo smiles when he spots John, finds him a corner table and takes a moment to chat before being called away. It's relaxing, sitting alone in his corner, watching people, and when Angelo brings him his food, it's good, good and hot.

"I wonder if you'd mind," that's how Angelo starts, and the woman standing a couple of steps behind him is gorgeous, chocolate skin and black hair, and of course John doesn't mind sharing his table with Angela, who is in town on business and always stops by Angelo's for dinner, so it would have been an awful shame to have had to go elsewhere tonight. They talk about random things, and eventually, the conversation wanders around to how fortunate it is for Angelo that the police hadn't been interested in reopening a case which "that detective fellow" hadn't actually been the one to solve, even if he had been involved. Somehow, John manages not to flinch.

There's dinner and there's dessert and then Angela goes to powder her nose.

"So, what's wrong with her?"

John almost gets whiplash lifting his head to look at the man in black across the table, the man that wasn't there a moment ago, the man that hasn't sat down. The man that's now sitting there, looking at him perfectly calmly, apparently waiting for a reply.

"Excuse me?"

"What's wrong with her? She's hot, she's got an excellent personality, no significant others, no embarrassing little problems. What's not to like?"

"I don't see how that's any business of…"

"And the others - absolutely lovely people, each and every one of them. And let me tell you, I actually made an effort here, so it hurts, not having my hard work appreciated. So, tell me, what's the missing piece? A foot fetish?"

John's mind is trying to catch up to the conversation, surprise giving way to affront and affront giving way to anger as he reaches the only possible conclusion.

"Listen, I don't know what your business is, sending prostitutes…"

"Oh, hush," and John's lips close and he can't speak, can't open his mouth, can't do anything but stare at the man across from him, the man whose life he saved outside that pub. "I told you, they're all lovely people, not a single whore among them. I should be offended at that. But seriously, what does it take to make you happy? I send you money, you give it away. I offer you all the power you could ever want, you run and hide from it. I send all these pretty girls and boys your way, and you don't get your leg over even once. So, what will it take? What will it take to make you, John Watson, a happy man?"

And just like that, John can speak again, and perhaps he should scream, should call for help, should run away, but he does none of those things. All he does is answer. All he does is say, "I don't know." Followed by, "Why do you even care?"

"You know, I'm beginning to ask myself the same question." And then John finds himself staring at an empty seat, not believing his own eyes. A couple of minutes later, when Angela returns and lightly touches his arm to get his attention, he jumps to his feet, eyes wide and startled.

* * *

And now, dear reader - and I hope you will have patience with me - we return to the beginning. To the demon at the computer. And of course, dear reader, being an astute kind of person, you have by now concluded that the demon in question is in fact Crowley, the infamous King of the Crossroads.

Now, here's the thing about crossroads demons - from the least among them to the greatest: they pay their debts. Oh, don't get me wrong - it's not like they are bound by some cosmic rule, it's not like they won't lie and trick and con you at every turn. After all, they are evil, they are demons, first and foremost and always, and one should never forget that.

But before they were evil, before the rack and the pain and the twisting of human souls into darker things, at their very essence, crossroads demons are creatures of the deal. Bargains, trades, 'you scratch my back, I scratch yours' - it's what got them here, it's their day (and night) job, it's how they fundamentally view the world. Give and take. Something for something. Never something for nothing. They simply cannot grasp the concept.

Which is why, when you're Crowley and some random human pushes you out of the way of a demon killing bullet, you do feel the need to repay that debt. Well, maybe the fact that it's embarrassing, having had to be saved from the bloody Winchesters of all people, and wanting to avoid any possible chance of that sort of debt cropping up at some future date, maybe that has a part to play as well.

Of course, out of all the random bystanders in the entire city of London, Crowley had to be saved by the one who wasn't particularly tempted by the usual standbys of his trade, and who didn't have a conveniently cancer-stricken daughter or seafaring husband taken hostage by pirates or similar to save. Which leads us to her and now, Crowley sitting stubbornly at the computer, at night, in a dark and locked therapist's office, reading password protected files, muttering to himself about bloody co-dependent mortals, is there something in the water these days?

Halfway around the world, a sniper wakes and sets about his daily routine. By nightfall he'll be dead, and once Moran's gone, the remainder of Moriarty's organization will fall like dominoes.

* * *

The cemetery trees are covered in flowers and the world is springtime bright. John is visiting Sherlock's grave, squatting down and talking quietly to his dead friend when he hears someone walking up behind him, taking a deep breath.

"Hello, John."

Standing in the shadow of a great tree, unnoticed by both men, is a demon allowing himself a moment's satisfaction as he watches the reunion. Then he's gone.


End file.
